Too. Much. News.

Too many things. Internal chaos. Just write something, just write anything, it’s better than nothing, it’s better than having it all jammed up in your head –

Where shall I start? I guess I should start with the holiday. Already the holiday seems far behind me and I am hurtling into the future towards therapy and psych appointments and house viewings and other anxiety provoking things.

But I’m so damn jittery and so fucking buzzy and have so many things to say I fear I won’t be able to say any of it. I’d take a lorazepam right now, even though it’s not quite eight am, except I’m trying to stop relying on it so much. I relied on it throughout the holiday – I had taken 3mg before my train reached London. On Saturday night in Poitiers I was in such a state I knew the safest thing for me to do was to be unconscious, so I took 4mg lorazepam and 15mg zopiclone and slept for nine hours straight. On Sunday night I relied on beer, drunk alone in my hotel room because I simply couldn’t deal with any more People. These are not healthy coping strategies and I do not endorse them, but you know what – who cares, they got me through. And I fucking did it, I went to France with a group of strangers and I survived! And I had some amazing and powerful experiences in the caves that I wouldn’t have missed for the world, even if some of it was excruciatingly difficult.

Then yesterday, as if to highlight the contrasts in my life, and my eternally fluctuating functionality, I found myself in a room with another group of strangers at an art course for people with mental health problems, asked to wear a sticky label with my name on it and say something about myself, and I absolutely couldn’t do it. I panicked, and froze, and couldn’t say a word, and had to leave. This is how my life is. This is how it goes.

And now I’ve run out of words, as well as milk and food and (almost!) toilet paper, so I’d better take my paranoid self to the shop, and soon.